


Downward Momentum

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arse Worship, Fluff, Humour, Ice Skating, M/M, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out Sherlock's not quite as elegant on the ice as he is off of it, and his arse gets more than a little abused. Good thing John's there to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downward Momentum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Interrosand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand/gifts).



> My contribution for Sandy's surprise. It's fluffy porn, because of course it is. I am incapable of anything else.
> 
> Sandy, on vous aime <3 J'espere que ca t'amuse!
> 
> Huge thanks to Lacuna for the beta and Lexxx for helping me find a title.

John's booked three nights at the inn in Cornwall, and damned if he isn't going to enjoy the mini-vacation, even if it had only taken Sherlock fourteen minutes to solve the murder that brought them out here in the first place.

Sherlock's pacing back and forth in the small sleeping area of their room, growling and muttering to himself like a big angry cat. John folds down the corner of his newspaper and raises a brow at Sherlock.

"Useless! Boring! Waste of time! I didn't think it was possible to have officers less competent than the ones at the yard, but bless the Cornwall constabulary for proving me wrong." Sherlock shouts, running his hands through his hair as he paces, rumpling it beyond repair. John stifles a giggle.

"S'good for you." John says, blithely.

"Pardon?"

"Being proven wrong now and again. It's healthy." John murmurs, unfolding his newspaper and using it as a shield. Sherlock's spluttering and grumbling, but John manages to tune him out and go back to browsing local events section of the paper.

Orchid lecture? If it were given by a renowned horticulturist, maybe, but John suspects this one is more about care and basic maintenance, and he's not in the mood to listen to Sherlock verbally eviscerate an eighty-year-old woman. He sighs and moves on.

New restaurant opening? Yeah, that'd be lovely if Sherlock were interested in eating this week. All signs so far have pointed to distinct disinterest in that department. John purses his lips, ignoring Sherlock's increasingly distraught muttering as he moves from the sleeping area to the sofa at the front of the room.

Skimming through the paper, John nixes several more possible diversions when he sees the small advert for the local outdoor ice rink. Before he has time to second-guess his decision, he gets off the bed and marches across the room. He leans over the back of the sofa where Sherlock has sprawled himself inelegantly.

"C'mon then, get up. We're going out."

"Mmmf." Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John tips further forward to press a kiss to the furrowed ridge of Sherlock's brow.

"No arguments, Sherlock. You're bored, and you're driving me up the wall. Come with me."

"Where?" Sherlock's attempting to sound nonchalant, but John can tell his interest is piqued. Anything has to be better than being cooped up in this room.

"Not telling."

"You're not taking me to that awful new restaurant, are you? Dull, John. I ate yesterday, after we wrapped the case."

John moves around the sofa so he's facing Sherlock, and grabs his wrists gently. Sherlock sits up, following John despite his stream of complaints.

"No, Sherlock, I am not going to waste money on buying food you have no intention of eating. And before you ask, I am not taking you to that orchid lecture either."

At this, Sherlock's face falls slightly, and John knows he was right to skip that option.

John allows himself a moment to appreciate the long, lean line of Sherlock's body as he slips into his greatcoat and wraps his scarf around the pale expanse of his throat. Impulsively, John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's neck, just above the soft blue wool. Sherlock looks down at him and raises a brow, but hums appreciatively in the back of his throat nonetheless. He runs one gloved hand down the length of John's spine before John slips into his own jacket.

"Stop being so bloody distracting, Sherlock. We're going out and doing things, whether you like it or not."

"We can do plenty of _things_ here in this room." Sherlock's voice has dropped to a low rumble, the one he knows John is susceptible to. Strengthening his resolve, John buttons his jacket and marches out of the room before he has a chance to change his mind. 

Despite his protests, Sherlock follows John down the stairs and out the front door of the small inn. According to the GPS on John's phone, it's a short walk to the rink. Sherlock, brow furrowed again, stares down at John as if he can deduce where they're heading. John does his best to make sure his face remains neutral and impassive as he sets off.

"One of the innumerable and boring museums Cornwall has to offer, then?"

John says nothing.

"Some insipid view of the water?"

John remains silent and keeps walking.

Sherlock's guesses continue to get more overblown and absurd; ranging from an alien crash-landing site to serial homicide John had somehow kept a secret until now. John reaches out, still saying nothing, and laces his fingers through Sherlock's. He squeezes Sherlock's hand comfortingly.

"Stop guessing, you tit. Just relax for once."

"I don't guess."

"Mm, yeah. And the Cornwall Screech Owl Sanctuary was an educated deduction then, was it?"

Sherlock pouts. "Owls could be interesting."

John squeezes his hand again, smiling. "Just admit you have no idea where I'm taking you and stop spouting nonsense."

Grimacing, Sherlock relents and sinks into silence, but John can tell he's not irritated, thankfully. It's not long before they reach their destination. John trots up to the skate rental booth and grabs two pairs in their sizes.

Sherlock is standing, stock-still and open-mouthed, right where John left him. John reaches up and presses Sherlock's jaw shut with one finger.

"No, John. Absolutely not."

John's already on the bench, lacing up his skates with the methodical efficiency of someone who has experience in something but hasn't done it in quite a while. He hopes he still remembers the basics, and is relying on old muscle memory to prevent him from making an arse of himself once he steps out onto the ice. How Sherlock had managed to avoid deducing that John played ice hockey for ten years as a child, John had never quite figured out, but it's nice to still have some secrets. Thankfully the rink is nearly empty, save for the withered-looking old man in the tweed cap sitting at the skate rental booth. If John is going to embarrass himself, at least it'll only be in front of Sherlock, and that's nothing new.

Sighing, Sherlock sits next to him and slides into his skates. He pulls the blade guards off irritably and leans against the wall of the rink for stability, but then, so does John. No matter how skilled someone is on the ice, walking around on flat ground in skates is awkward.

John is fully anticipating Sherlock to be as effortlessly graceful on the ice as he is in daily life. From the way he swans about the flat when doing the most mundane of things to the way he moves around John like running water when they're in bed, everything he does feels like a natural extension of his body. What John is absolutely, thoroughly not expecting is for Sherlock, instead, to take one awkward, hesitant step onto the smooth surface of the ice, flail about like a drunken giraffe for three seconds, and land directly on his arse.

"Sherlock?" John manages to spit out between giggles. "Did you _delete_ ice skating?"

Sherlock glares at John, looking gravely wounded. The impact is lessened somewhat by the fact that he's decided to lay flat on his back, so John has to look down at him.

"Ice skating is rubbish. If I was ever subjected to this insane torture as a youth, I have since purged it from my memory. Waste of time and space."

"Or you're just jealous." John smirks and pointedly skates a circle around Sherlock, being careful to avoid his splayed limbs. He completes the circuit once more, backwards, and stops in front of Sherlock, a spray of ice shavings splattering Sherlock's leg. He digs the tip of his blades into the ice for stability and holds a hand out to Sherlock, who gives him one more suffering glare before gratefully accepting it.

John hoists him to his feet. Before Sherlock has a chance to tumble again, John wraps his hands solidly around Sherlock's waist, stabilising him. He lowers his stance, shifting his centre of gravity, and begins gently sliding each foot backwards. He'd certainly win no medals for his performance today, but his body has indeed retained the necessary micro-adjustments in balance and motion to keep him upright and moving smoothly.

The same, however, cannot be said for Sherlock. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed, his expression a hilarious combination of self-righteous ire and near-panic. He fists his hands into the lapels of John's coat, as though worried John is going to leave him there. John chuckles, releasing one hand from Sherlock's waist briefly to pat his cheek.

"Come on, it's not that hard. Don't fight it, don't over-think it."

"But John! I over-think everything!" He sounds shrill and hilariously plaintive, and John can't help it, he bursts out laughing again. Gently, still holding Sherlock, he slides backwards about a foot, increasing the space between them.

"Just push off, one foot and then the other. Let your body correct itself, don't fight it."

Wobbling precariously, Sherlock manages to inch forward. John loosens his grip on Sherlock's waist; not removing his hands entirely, but giving him more room to move if need be. It turns out to be a mistake. As soon as John's fingers release their death grip on Sherlock's coat, gravity takes over and Sherlock ends up on his arse again.

"Have you made your point, John? This endeavour is absurd and useless and there are people I could be correcting about historical artifacts or familiae orchidaceae."

And yet, when John reaches his hands out to hoist Sherlock back up, Sherlock accepts them freely.

"Hold still, I have an idea." John releases Sherlock's hands, and mercifully, he stays put this time. John repositions himself so he's behind Sherlock now, facing in the same direction, and places his hands firmly around Sherlock's hips once again. He can't resist the impulse and indulges in a gentle squeeze, stroking his thumbs against Sherlock's ribs through the thick layers of his coat.

"Are you attempting to bribe me into participating?"

"That depends," John chuckles. "Is it working?"

Slowly, he begins moving forward, pushing Sherlock along with him, a bit like the world's most handsome but uncooperative plow. Sherlock catches on quickly, leaning into John's grip and wrapping his own gloved hands over John's fingers. It seems to be working and John lets out a hopeful whoop mere seconds before Sherlock goes tumbling back down, this time taking John with him.

John realises Sherlock's calf is across his own skate blade and does his best to hold perfectly still while they disentangle. Sherlock, however, appears to have other ideas. Taking advantage of the relative isolation of the rink, he shimmies up John's body and clambers over him on all fours. Sherlock's breath is warm and sweet, puffs of thick steam rising in the cold air.

Part of John wants to resist, to stick to his plan, but part of him is perfectly content to lie here, pinned under Sherlock. The sharp contrast of the ice under his back and the blistering heat of Sherlock hovering above him is doing funny things to John's willpower, and he relents, tipping his head back onto the ice and exposing his throat to Sherlock's exploring lips.

"Shall we head back to the room, then?" Sherlock is nearly subvocalising now, rumbling deeply against John's neck, and whatever tiny sliver of resistance John had crumbles.

"If I agree to leave, you're going to crow about it forever, aren't you?"

"Mmm, probably. But if you insist on continuing this farce, I will complain the entire time."

Sherlock darts his tongue out and runs it across John's carotid, no doubt judging his increase in heart-rate. John feels a sympathetic throb down in his groin, and if this continues much longer he's going to have as much trouble skating back to the edge of the rink as Sherlock is. He wriggles under Sherlock, slipping his hands into the warmth of that great stupid coat and stroking the small of Sherlock's back.

"I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't. I give up, let's go back to the room and warm up."

Sherlock laughs, a soft huff of warm air against John's chilled skin. John's eyes flutter closed and a quiet moan escapes his lips, and there's no doubt that he's completely lost at this point. Carefully extricating himself, Sherlock manages to get himself back into a standing position, balanced loosely on his skate blades. His shoulders have lost the nervous tension he had before, and his body has started making the necessary micro-adjustments to keep himself upright.

John gets up and brushes the ice off his knees and his arse, grumbling quietly.

"I see you've got it all figured out, then. Shall we race to the exit?"

Sherlock's eyes widen in a reasonable facsimile of faked panic as he shuffles over to John, successfully moving forward a few feet without toppling over. He clings to John's coat, chuckling.

"And pass up an excuse to cling to you and be an enormous inconvenience? I think not."

John grins, wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, and begins skating backwards towards the exit. They make it to flat ground successfully and Sherlock drops into the muddy, snowy ground outside the rink with no care for his coat. He tries to disguise the sharp hiss that escapes his lips when he falls onto his arse, but John catches it anyway. Grumbling, Sherlock removes his skates and walks across the ground in his stockinged feet, eventually reaching the bench where they'd left their shoes.

Sighing, John plods over to the bench and begins unlacing his own skates. "Your socks are soaked. Your feet are going to be frozen by the time we get back to the inn," he chastises.

Sherlock smirks. "Excellent, you can warm them up."

"Git."

"You love me."

"God knows why, but yes, I do."

***

They head back to the inn, quickly and quietly, with the comfortable anticipation of what's to come hovering between them. They're not so young anymore, and the promise of a warm romp in a plush hotel room is exciting and heady, but not to the point where they can't keep their mitts off each other. At one point, John reaches out and places his hand on Sherlock's back, and Sherlock mumbles something happy and incoherent, but aside from that they don't feel the need to speak for the time being.

The mood changes when they get into the room and lock the door. Sherlock crowds up against John, pressing him against the wall and ducking down to kiss him. His lips are still cool from the outside air, but the inside of his mouth is warm and soft and inviting, and the contrast has John reeling. 

John reaches up and yanks Sherlock's scarf off and exposes the pale expanse of his throat, mottled with inviting birthmarks. Sherlock breaks the kiss, panting heavily, and traces his lips--now blood-hot--across John's cheek, moving towards his earlobe. John whimpers and tilts his head to the side in open invitation.

He reaches up to Sherlock's shoulders, cold fingers fumbling wildly as Sherlock takes his earlobe between those warm, plush lips, and attempts feebly to get that great ridiculous coat off him. Sherlock laughs softly, rumbling against John's neck, and deftly reaches up to undo the buttons on John's coat.

"Yeah, yeah," John pants out between breaths. "You great showoff."

Sherlock gets his coat open and off and runs his hands -- large, clever, and warm -- up under John's jumper, thumbs stroking his ribs. John moans, shifting his hips slightly to accommodate the burgeoning weight in his pants.

"Hhnngh." John isn't quite sure what he'd wanted to say there; Sherlock bites down on his earlobe and he's lost all capability for coherent thought. Thankfully, his lover's a bloody genius.

"Bed?" Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper against the soft skin of his ear, and John's cock throbs again, pressing against the zip of his jeans.

"Mm, yes. That."

They pull apart and John sighs wistfully, causing Sherlock to snicker. Sherlock shucks his coat and lets it tumble to the floor, and they manage to scramble out of their shoes. Sherlock winces as his damp socks make contact with the cool tile of the floor, and John bites down an _I told you so_. Instead, he nudges Sherlock onto the plush sofa at the front of their room and drops to his knees.

John takes first one foot and then the other, gently and lovingly stroking them as he pulls the unpleasantly damp socks off. Sherlock's feet are cool and pale, but the implacable doctor's voice in the back of John's head notes happily that he's nowhere near risking frostbite or anything more major. John rubs Sherlock's feet between his hands, to get the blood flowing again, and Sherlock hums happily.

There's nothing sexual about this, simply John looking after the man he loves, but he can't help pressing a quick kiss to the inside of Sherlock's left ankle. Sherlock twitches and stifles a ridiculous giggle, and as much as John is tempted to tickle him, he behaves.

Sherlock stands and holds a hand out to John, and John can't help but smile at the reversal of their roles on the skating rink. Gratefully, he accepts it and gets up off the floor, letting Sherlock very nearly drag him to the large, inviting bed at the back of the room.

Fingers now warm and limber, John makes quick work of the buttons along the front of Sherlock's shirt--a deep red today, that sets off his pale skin in an entirely unfair way--and shoves it eagerly off his broad shoulders. Sherlock wriggles his arms, working his hands through the cuffs, and lets it fall to the floor before grabbing the hems of John's jumper and the cotton tee he's wearing under it. Sherlock pulls them both over John's head in one smooth motion, and for a breathless moment they merely stand there, staring, appreciating the eager rise-and-fall of each other's shoulders, the warm flush of want spreading across both their chests.

It's Sherlock who breaks the moment, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of John's jeans, and tugging him backwards towards the bed. Another unconscious mirror of their motions on the ice, perhaps. John stares into Sherlock's eyes, pupils already deep and wide with arousal, lids heavy. His own are much the same, he suspects. Sherlock tugs John back until his own calves bump up against the edge of the mattress, and he drops heavily onto the mattress.

Sherlock does his best to disguise the grimace of discomfort as he lands, but John notices it nonetheless; in his expression, in the slight tensing of his shoulders, in the minor flagging of his arousal, so gloriously visible against his trousers moments ago.

"Landed on there one too many times, did we?" John murmurs fondly, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but doesn't deny it.

"Budge up then, and roll over."

"Oh, Doctor, are you going to examine me?" Sherlock's voice is playful and rough around the edges, so clearly he's not in _that_ much pain as he rolls onto his knees. John bites his lip, taking a moment to appreciate the lush curve of Sherlock's arse in his trousers before clambering up onto the bed and settling between his knees.

John leans forward, pressing a kiss between Sherlock's exposed shoulder blades and running his hands along Sherlock's sides, stroking his ribs before moving around to undo the flies of his trousers. He is incredibly aware of his own erection pressing against Sherlock's thigh, and he's certain Sherlock is too.

"I'm not sure that's entirely professional, John." Sherlock's laugh is low and lush and lovely. 

John laughs and manages to get Sherlock's trousers open, and runs his fingers along the prominence of Sherlock's erection, straining against the dark cotton of his pants. Beneath him, Sherlock makes an adorable strangled noise that John is certain he'd deny was a needy whimper. But it absolutely was.

Nipping lightly at Sherlock's pale shoulders, dusted with pale, sparse freckles, John sighs in aroused contentment. Gently, he works his way down the curve of Sherlock's spine and up the swelling slope of his glutes, until his lips meet the tops of Sherlock's trousers and the elastic waistband of his pants. Hungrily, John hooks his fingers into Sherlock's clothing and tugs it off him, exposing the pale, perfect flesh of his rear end.

He leaves the bunched fabric around Sherlock's thighs and takes a moment to study Sherlock's arse, now gloriously bare and exposed for John. Sherlock's turned his head and is resting his cheek on the bed, heavy-lidded eyes staring intently at John, who runs the fingers of his left hand over the smooth skin. Sherlock's arse is a bit red, nothing worse.

Readjusting his weight, John leans down and presses his lips to the divots on the either side of Sherlock's spine, right above the swelling curve below. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut at the contact, so John does it again.

"I think you'll live, Sherlock. Your posterior is as lovely as ever."

"Mmgh." His response is muffled and inelegant, and John grins.

"I think," Sherlock manages to drawl out, "You should kiss it better, just to be certain."

John can't help the giggles that escape his lips, the breath that ripples out across Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock shivers beneath him.

"Sherlock, did you honestly just ask me to _kiss your arse_?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and flaps one hand vaguely, as if to say _Yes, now do get on with it_ and it sends a surge of warmth through's chest, and a rush of blood to John's cock. John scrambles off the bed just long enough to extricate himself from his jeans and his pants with a satisfied grunt that causes Sherlock to snicker.

He clambers back up onto the bed and settles between Sherlock's knees. For a moment he just rests one cheek lightly -- mindful of Sherlock's earlier discomfort -- against the warm, soft skin of Sherlock's arse. 

John had planned to be slow and gentle, but Sherlock's squirming minutely beneath him and making needy little noises in the back of his throat, and it sets John's brain into overdrive. He wraps one hand firmly around Sherlock's erection -- shockingly hot and solid in his hand even after all these years -- and traces his tongue across the curved planes of Sherlock's arse. 

With no real rhyme, reason, or pattern, John plants sloppy, open-mouthed kisses first on one cheek and then the other, nips at the ample flesh wherever he can, runs the pointed tip of his tongue along the curve at the top of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock's buried his face in the coverlet, whining loudly as he thrusts his hips backwards, attempting to force John to make contact with something more sensitive. Each thrust forces his cock through the ring of John's fingers, but John makes otherwise no motion to soothe Sherlock's arousal.

John pulls back, blowing cool air across a thin wet stripe he's just licked. Sherlock shivers.

"Your arse is absolutely ridiculous, you know that?"

" _You're_ absolutely ridiculous," Sherlock seethes, but John can't help notice that he still hasn't taken matters into his own hands or swatted John away.

Slowly, taking pity on Sherlock, John begins to stroke. At the same time, his other hand reaches up and gently, still mindful of Sherlock's earlier indignities, he spreads Sherlock's cheeks apart and licks one broad stroke over Sherlock's tailbone, over the ring of his arsehole, over his perineum, right to the base of his balls.

Sherlock shouts, one single sharp cry, and then begins whimpering in earnest. John's own cock is throbbing now, the slow tease he's made Sherlock endure having had a similar effect on himself. John's need to draw this out, to torment Sherlock further, dissipates. With new vigor, he starts stroking the engorged shaft of Sherlock's prick. On every upstroke, he slides his palm over the head, slicking himself with the fluids Sherlock's leaking. On every downstroke, he flutters his tongue over the puckered nub of Sherlock's anus, flicking and lapping hungrily until the muscle relaxes and opens just enough for John to thrust the tip of his tongue in.

Apparently, that's more than enough to push Sherlock over the edge and he comes with a full-body shudder and another loud cry. John can feel Sherlock's cock twitching, spasming in his hand, what seems like an improbably enormous amount of come flowing over his hand and onto the bed below them. The ring of muscle twitches wildly against John's tongue, and it's almost too much to bear.

Panting, Sherlock drops the rest of the way to the mattress, pinning John's sticky hand beneath him. John's own cock, neglected until now, throbs needfully between his legs. He's painfully hard, engorged and deep red, already glistening with pre-come despite the fact that he hasn't even touched himself yet. He wraps one hand firmly around himself and begins stroking, quickly and efficiently, groaning against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock's sated and sleepy and makes no motion to move away, and John angles himself so he's thrusting against the cleft of Sherlock's arse. Every time the head of his cock slides smoothly out of the grip of his hand, he can feel it rolling over the impossibly hot, impossibly soft skin above Sherlock's hole, still damp with John's own spit, and he knows it's not going to take long now.

Panting, trembling, he gives himself a few more tight squeezes and the orgasm hits him like a wall of bricks. He buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder blade with a whimper, splattering come across that glorious, perfect arse. Sherlock huffs in satisfaction, rolling his hips under John's to prolong John's orgasm. 

After what seems like a blissful eternity, John comes down to earth with a parched throat and a cramp in his calf. He rolls off of Sherlock and curls up on his side, and Sherlock half-turns to stare at him. There's an impish grin on Sherlock's face.

"What is it about my posterior, John?"

"Have you _seen_ the damned thing? It's bloody well perfect."

Smug bastard that he is, Sherlock wiggles his hips. His bare arse -- still coated in John's come -- jiggles invitingly, and John lets out a long, low, frustrated breath.

"Christ, give me half an hour and a nap, would you? I'm not as young as I used to be."

Sherlock cackles infuriatingly and John half-heartedly tosses a pillow at him. 

"How about you just let me sleep for tonight, Sherlock? We don't have to be anywhere at all tomorrow; we can stay in bed all day."

Sherlock sits up and stares at John, aghast. His hair is a rumpled riot, which only makes his shocked expression seem even more absurd.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. There's an owl sanctuary we have to visit!"


End file.
